24. CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE SWAMP.
Harley entered the Blackwater Swamp at the point selected by
Puccoon on the night of the deer-hunt.
He had no difficulty in finding his way. The rain, which had
rushed down with such impetuous violence, gradually exhausted
itself, and the clouds slowly drifted away, permitting the moon to
shine out at intervals; thus Harley was able to advance upon his
way with something to guide him.
To penetrate a morass at night, with only the dim light of the
moon, wading in and out amid ebon clouds, to guide you, is not an
easy undertaking. If any one doubts the statement, let him make
the attempt. Every bush is an obstacle; every pool is a snare; the
firm grass that you put your feet upon without hesitation is slime,
and the puddle you disregarded is a quagmire up to your waist.
Harley was, however, an experienced huntsman—that is to say,
he knew how to pick his way, and was not deceived by appearances.
He went on with an assured step, and threaded
the labyrinth of this “Pontine marsh” with the skill of a man
thoroughly experienced in woodcraft, and reached without difficulty
the northern shore of the large body of water which had presented
so picturesque a scene on the night of the deer-hunt.
At this moment, with the moon drifting through the black clouds,
and shining in and out, the scene was wilder and more striking.
There is something weird and sombre in these still masses of water,
unstirred by winds, in the centres of the great swamps of Virginia.
You read of them in books, and can form no conception of them.
The waters sleep, dark and still. The pond-lilies wave on the surface,
and huge festoons of vines droop above. On that surface, still
and solemn, the chance-gleam of sunlight or of moonlight shimmers—a
ghostly charm. Far off, you see the fringe of green, edging
the water, or the marshy tracts overgrown with reeds and aquatic
plants. The day scarcely penetrates these jungles. Night and
mystery seem to reign.
Harley stopped and looked around him. He was not thinking
now of drainage. The sombre and forbidding beauty of the scene
enthralled him. The large body of water—some hundreds of acres
in size—slept in the moonlight, disappearing and then reappearing
as the clouds drifted; and the cypresses assumed mysterious
shapes—the laurel and juniper rose, like inanimate wardens of the
marsh, and its secrets. The scene was wild and impressive, but
not deficient in beauty, such as a painter would have rejoiced in.
Against the moon, which now grew bloody in hue as it descended
toward the west, the tracery of the great cypress summits was
defined with exquisite delicacy, and the laurel leaves threw back a
sheen as brilliant as that which darts from the piled-up foliage of
the magnolia. Over all fell a dreamy and dusky splendor. The
swamp, washed by the rain, was in all the glory of its strange
attraction.
Justin Harley had stopped, in spite of himself—taken prisoner
by the weird influences of the scene. But he had plainly come
with another intent than to look at landscape beauties or indulge
in dreams. He went on with a resolute step, circling the lake on
the western side. Reaching a point on the southern bank, he
looked round him.
The large body of water here had an outlet—that which Harley
had referred to in speaking to Puccoon. The ground, indeed, followed
the general inclination of the surrounding country, and at
this place the lake had furrowed out a channel through which its
surplus waters were discharged into the Blackwater river. Harley
stood still for an instant, looking about him. A glance showed him
that he had reached the outlet. But in spite of his most careful
examination he could perceive nothing in the shape of an “island.”
There was nothing to be done but to go on. He resolutely
plunged once more into the thick jungle. His progress, difficult
before, became now almost an impossibility. Twice he sank to his
waist in the treacherous waters, and only dragged himself out by
main force. Then suddenly a broad and apparently impassable
body of water stretched in front of him. He was compelled to
make a detour. Breaking through the dense jungle, he at last
reached the upper shore of this piece of water. But a stream, if it
could be so described, ran into it, and Harley was compelled to
ascend this stream in search of a crossing.
When he found what seemed to be used as a means of passage—
for the vines were pulled down at the spot—he hesitated before
venturing. The frail bridge was a cypress-trunk, long, slender, tapering,
shooting straight across from one bank to the other, many
feet above the lagoon beneath, without any support for the hands
of a person crossing. To attempt the passage of this natural bridge
in the half-darkness was a desperate undertaking; but Harley had
determined to accomplish his object, and resolutely ventured on
the tapering trunk. His woodcraft and skill served him well.
Foot by foot he made his way, reached the opposite bank, and
following a nearly imperceptible path, again entered the jungle.
The path wound to and fro, avoiding everywhere the treacherous
pools, and following the firmer ground. The jungle opened, the
path grew firmer, and Harley saw before him once more the main
outlet of the lake, and in the middle a small island.
In the centre of this island grew a magnificent laurel—a glossy
cone of deep, rich green. Near it three cypresses raised their
fringed summits above the swamp.
